


The Ocean

by TheKnowingQueen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Break Up, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Deaf Character, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Katsuki Yuuri is anxious and confused but trying his best, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Canon, Sign Language, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Viktor Nikiforov needs a refreshing glass of water and a big hug, Yuri Plisetsky actually cares but would be caught dead before admitting it, many suicide mentions, prescribed medication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnowingQueen/pseuds/TheKnowingQueen
Summary: It had been quite a strong current that tore them apart. Swimming against it would have only meant drowning in the fight.Sometimes it's safest to let the current pull you along before easing back to shore.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	1. Water Rushing Overhead

Yuuri was in the stadium dressing room alone. Every thought, breath, and move was frantically put to contacting the caterer. It was their first Grand Prix Final since Viktor's proposal. The competition should have meant every single thing to him at that moment; the ice, his skates, the programs. But competing was the very last thing on Yuuri's mind.

His thumbs dashed across his phone in a desperate attempt to convince the caterer of his dreams to give them _another_ chance. The company had dropped all contact after the fifth time Viktor had failed to show up to their appointment. Each time, after Yuuri would call him from the parking lot in fiery tears, Viktor would say that they "needed to focus on what was important." That did not include their wedding.

Following the World Championships, Viktor and Yuuri had practically become attached at the hip. Together they had become unstoppable, not only claiming headlines in the skating universe but in the mainstream media as well. To anyone looking in they would see a complete and utter force of nature. The two of them were running a one-legged race, dashing to the Grand Prix Final, but somewhere along the way they had started to trip over each other, tumbling and falling and failing to pick themselves back up.

Something had snapped a few months after the Championships. What had previously been the pair melded into one was crudely sliced straight down the middle by something Yuuri didn't understand. In a split second, Viktor had started flitting through his fingers, less and less tangible as the days wore on. Soon enough they were spending all day at the rink, drilling each move with more and more fervor. Then they would go home. Yuuri would go to the shower and Viktor would make himself dinner and they would avoid each other until practice the next day. Viktor's closeness, his warmth, was replaced with an icy ocean growing between them. It had started as a puddle, then a pond, then a lake. Suddenly it felt as if a million gallons of water were being added every day, making it impossible for Yuuri to swim across. He wanted to. He _wanted to_ , but he couldn't even see what he would be swimming towards.

Yuuri had tried so hard to fix things early on; taking Viktor on dates, talking to him about anything that came to mind, skating for him. However, when the slightest drop of water had separated them Viktor had broken off, making himself into a vicious, cold little island. No matter what Yuuri tried, Viktor wouldn't let him in, and it was tiring. Yuuri was _tired_. His last hail mary had been the wedding, and he had clung to it with the strongest of death grips. Deep down he knew it was fruitless, that it wouldn't fix anything, but he couldn't bring himself to give up.

And so he was doing everything he could to get the catering company back.

* * *

The door flung open and Viktor marched in, peeling his gloves off and letting the door slam shut behind him. _He's pissed_ , Yuuri noted, ripping his eyes from the company's website to stare up at Viktor. He was always pissed these days. His brows were tight, the creases looking sad and wrong on his still beautiful face, so _beautiful_ even when tangled in all of that anger. 

"What the hell are you doing in here?" He hissed out a Russian curse. "Warm-up starts in five minutes, Katsuki." Yuuri had completely lost track of time in his haste.

"I'm trying to get the caterer back after all of the shit you've pulled!" Yuuri cried, tired and infuriated enough to fling expletives around merely by Viktor's tenseness seeping into the water surrounding them.

Viktor scoffed, "You're kidding me, right? We are at the Grand Prix Finals, Yuuri!"

"No, Viktor, I'm _not_ kidding!" Yuuri's hands were shaking spastically, the anger triggering his nerves like a match strikes up flame. "Fuck the competition, Viktor! Do you not want to get married?" He screamed, his face burning as tears bunched in the corners of his eyes. He hated fighting. It made everything in him hurt. He wanted to be quiet; he wanted them both to just be _quiet_.

"We are not doing this right now," Viktor's tone had dropped to a storming whisper. The violent waves rose higher and higher and higher, looming over Yuuri, yet he could only stand and watch from the shoreline.

"Yes, we ARE!" Yuuri yelled, his voice cracking over the last syllable, "Answer the damn question, Viktor!"

Viktor answered without hesitation, frenziedly pulling his hair through his fingers, " _Fine,_ " his voice was low, shaking darkly, "I don't, Yuuri. I don't want this anymore."

The waves crested, terrifyingly huge and roiling rapidly as they plunged down to Yuuri, sweeping him out to sea.

They were both frozen. Time stood still in that moment. Yuuri felt the tears streaming hot and heavy, tracking quickly down his face. His body felt different from his mind as if they were no longer intertwined. Yuuri was watching himself from the sky as his body sank to the sea floor. He hadn't fought against it, simply letting the water close him in.

His chest heaved as the panic set in, creeping down the back of his neck and wrapping its hands around his lungs. He yanked the ring off of his finger, dropping it on the floor unceremoniously. Neither one spoke another word as Yuuri shoved past, stumbling out of the room.

Viktor didn't go after him.

* * *

Yuuri skated the best program of his life that day. He had pushed every limit, upped his intensity, and screamed his throat hoarse throughout the entire routine. It had been a pure and raw and gut-wrenching performance. The judges had loved it. They thought it was all part of the act. It wasn't.

He stood atop the podium, holding the gold medal in his hand, but it could've been a feather, a brick, a grain of sand, or the weight of Earth itself. Nothing felt real. He was standing in the middle of the arena and he was standing nowhere at all. Yurio was next to him, scowling at the reporters. But maybe he wasn't. Yuuri couldn't tell.

When the first click of the cameras rang out and a bright flash hit his eyes, he crumpled, falling to his knees and sobbing on the podium. The crowd, applauding and cheering, all thought he was happy, so, so _happy_. But he was empty, so, so _empty_. His body had been hollowed out, carved and ripped until there was nothing left.

Yurio nudged him with his foot. It didn't register. Yurio said something. It was too far away to make out. Yurio slapped him across the face. Yuuri jolted, his gaze trying to refocus itself. He was in the arena. He was on the podium. He was in the arena and on the podium and he was empty.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Yurio growled, the accent especially thick through gritted teeth, "And where the fuck is Viktor?"

Viktor had left the arena long before Yuuri even stepped foot on the ice.

* * *

That day the ocean had finally drowned them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on team My Life Is Falling Apart So Lets Write a Shitty Fanfic ~chefs kiss~


	2. The Ice Underfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out on the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Angst™ in this chapter (and the entire fic tbh) is brought to you by my Major Sad Disorder. Eat up, my fellow heathens.  
> P.S. I have very little figure skating knowledge. I used my competitive dance knowledge and tried to cross-reference with skating in hopes that I don't sound like a damn idiot. If it doesn't make sense, tell me!!! I'll change it oml

It had been almost two years since then. Yuuri had moved back home, retiring to work at Ice Castle. 

The reporters had been relentless for the first few months, standing outside, even _inside_ , his house begging for a statement that Yuuri would never give. His own family had stopped asking a few weeks after his return, seeing as how the moment it was brought up Yuuri would promptly shut down. Whenever he stepped foot out of his room, his earbuds were in roaring on full blast to drown out the noise. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to hear, and he didn't want to say what had happened that day. Besides, he was certain rumors and assumptions had already been made. They were probably close enough to the truth.

He had completely disconnected himself from the competitive skating world, trading in his medals for teaching toddlers how to stand strong on the ice. Part of him hated it, the easiness and consistency and the lack of stress. All of the same reasons why the other part of him loved it. His job was enough to keep him skating, but nothing more. He didn't need anything more. He couldn't handle anything more.

His skates padded against the rubber flooring as he held the hand of a young girl, no more than four or five years old. She was petrified of getting out on the ice. Sometime during the previous class she had slipped down, landing hard on her knees, and the memory had certainly stuck with her. Following a long pep talk, a few pleas, and a promise that he'd hold her hands the whole time, she had finally agreed to go back out. The peach candy he'd used to bribe her with had helped too.

The rest of the group was already marching across the ice under Yuuko's confident instruction. Asari eyed her classmates nervously, shifting the candy in her mouth back and forth. Yuuri could see her retreating, the fear settling back in. He knew how it felt. He sped into action, determination overpowering any other thought.

"See? It's not so bad," Yuuri said excitedly, dropping her hand to stride onto the ice. He shot both of his hands back out to her with an encouraging smile, "Come on, Asari. I promised I wouldn't let you fall."

Her big eyes looked up at him as she took a hesitant step forward. "Pinky promise?" she mumbled softly, pushing her bangs out of the way with little, pudgy hands.

"I triple pinky promise."

She grabbed onto his hands, holding as tightly as she could before easing herself onto the ice.

"That's it!" Yuuri cheered, pulling her gradually across the rink towards Yuuko's group. Slowly but surely, the world's biggest smile had overthrown Asari's nerves. Yuuri couldn't help but feel his heart warm at the sight.

He kept his promise the entire class, continuing to teach with her hands gripping onto his.

* * *

Yurio stood at the center of the rink, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He'd just ran his free skate for the millionth time after Viktor _insisted_ that his pace was off. According to him, Yurio was always "too slow" or "just a beat too fast". Yurio thought it was a royal load of bullshit.

"Hey, Old Shit! How was that?!" He called out breathlessly, hoping he wasn't underestimating his volume.

Viktor's hands flew fast, signing with blatant annoyance, ' _You're starting too late._ ' Yurio snarled, teeth barring at his coach. It had been almost a year since the accident, he'd learned to live with it, so how could this _still_ be happening? He knew how to count a fucking beat for crying out loud.

Yurio trudged across the ice towards the benches, making a point to focus on anything other than Viktor's moving hands. He dug through his bag, pulled out his aids, and shoved them in, tucking the hooks behind his ears. The noise swarmed in with an overwhelming buzz, hitting his mind all at once like a suddenly flipped light switch, a blinding sensation that called for a moment of adjusting.

"You need to listen to it again, Yuri," Viktor had already transitioned back to speech, handing his phone over to Yurio who immediately swatted it away.

"For fuck's sake. I'm sick of listening to it."

"Well, you could listen to it and take first place, or," Viktor hummed, tapping a finger to his chin, "I could quit." He shot Yurio his signature goofy grin, all shining teeth and sparkling eyes. 

It was the same grin that used to annoy the living, breathing _hell_ of out Yurio. Now it made his stomach churn so violently that he thought he might vomit. In one night that grin had turned from something cheerfully nonchalant into one of many things that could make his heart fall out of his body. 

The memory followed him everywhere, attached to him like his own little demonic shadow. That evening had felt like a sickening, surreal horror movie. The way Viktor had stood there, staring off unresponsively; how his shoulders hunched after Yurio had managed to sit him down on the hotel couch; that goofy grin as he insisted that he was "fine" and to "not worry" about him. It had been a nightmare that, no matter how hard he'd tried, Yurio simply couldn't wake up from.

He took a deep breath and shook out his wrists, trying to detach himself from that ugly shadow, but it would never leave.

"Fine, whatever. Just turn it on before I change my mind, you old hag."

Viktor tapped on the song and upped the volume, making sure it could be heard. Yurio counted out each beat to Viktor, straining to hear what he was missing.

"You're skipping the rise. No wonder you're late," Viktor explained with an aggravatingly content expression, because Lord knows he just solved a harrowing mystery. Yurio rolled his eyes. Viktor had to be joking. There was no rise.

"No," Yurio seethed, "I don't know what you're hearing, but _I'm_ starting on the first count."

Viktor sighed, a sad smile on his lips as the realization ran over Yurio like a godforsaken semi-truck. The song's introduction was a quiet first few notes, the faded sound of a distant violin strum, but it certainly wasn't inaudible. At least, it wasn't to Viktor. With the way Yurio had been skating it, he was still gliding into his final pose well after the music had cut, making it seem as if he didn't know his own timing. It would've demoted his score and chances of getting on the podium at all.

"We can adjust it," Viktor reassured gently, his mind already set about to combing through the routine for extraneous steps, but Yurio was gone. He had skated across the rink and was stomping towards the locker rooms, tearing his aids out with a livid growl.

After what had felt like hours of Yurio sitting alone on the tiled floor, Viktor walked in. Yurio watched from his periphery as Viktor slid down next to him and began to take off his own skates. On impulse, Yurio chucked his aids away as if they had caught on fire, instantaneously burning his palms.

Viktor, lifting his hands from his laces, signed, ' _Those were expensive._ '

"Whatever. Apparently they're fucking useless anyway," Yurio grumbled, anger still simmering in the pit of his stomach.

' _You know that I care about you, right?'_

The simmer turned to a boil.

"Right, because you really give two shits about me each time you-" Yurio's words caught up to him and he choked back on them, stopping himself before he said something that he didn't mean. Viktor didn't reply. His hands had frozen mid air. The two of them sat there, the silence a thousand times more quiet even to Yurio's deaf ears.

Yurio was so genuinely stunned when Viktor's hands began to move that he almost missed it altogether. However, he wished he'd missed it, because what Viktor signed felt like a punch to the gut.

' _I know. I'm sorry._ '


	3. A Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no other answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hi, howdy! I'm ready to lay my life down for Phichit. At any given moment. Like if something bad happened to him? I am NOT emotionally stable enough to even think about it.

Yuuri was sound asleep when Mari threw open his bedroom door with both passion and indifference; two contrasting words that somehow summed her up perfectly. Light from the hallway poured in, hitting Yuuri smack in the face. He peeled one eye open, squinting at her silhouette in the doorframe. Glancing to his alarm clock, which read 8:15 in an aggressively neon red glow, he promptly shut his eye, not even bothering to give Mari the time of day.

"Don't you dare go back to sleep," Mari said blandly, staying firmly planted in her spot.

"Sorry, can't hear you. Already asleep," Yuuri mumbled back, his voice muffled through his pillow.

She flicked the lights on, evoking a tired groan from Yuuri as he tugged his blankets up to cover his eyes. He turned over resolutely, shoving his face into the mattress.

"It's my day off," he grumbled, "let me sleep."

"I would," she started, walking over to the bed and yanking the covers off of him, "but you have a visitor waiting in the front room." Yuuri shot up like a flash of lightning.

"What? Who? _Mari!_ " he called after her. She snorted in response before turning on her heels and walking out.

His bed was practically begging for him to lay back down, and it was very tempting, but Yuuri couldn't figure out who would actually be there to see _him._ There had only been a handful of people sticking by him after the Grand Prix Finals Disaster; his family and anyone who frequented Ice Castle. If it was another reporter trying to sneak a story by pretending to be an old friend he was certain he'd stab them with a chopstick. That'd surely make for an interesting narrative.

Reluctantly, he crawled out of bed, reaching blindly for his glasses. Puzzling over who it could be while also trying to wake himself up, Yuuri shuffled down the hall. As he passed his mother working by the counter, he pulled her into a hug, mumbling a "good morning" as he went. She smiled at him and nodded towards the dining room. Sleep still fogging his brain, Yuuri didn't even recognize who it was kneeling at the table until a good minute after he'd walked in.

"Phichit?" he asked skeptically, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him again.

"Yuuri!" Phichit whooped happily. Then he was up and moving faster than a bullet train, wrapping his arms around Yuuri who's sleepy mind felt like it was malfunctioning, fuzzing with static like their old television set.

Phichit had pulled back to hold Yuuri at arm's length. "It's so good to see you! Honestly, I was kind of worried after our last video chat. You didn't look too good. But here you are in one piece! The man, the myth, _and_ the damn legend! So talented, I could cry."

Yuuri was sputtering over his words, unable to figure out what he wanted to ask first. He started with something simple, "What are you doing here?" It wasn't that he didn't want to see Phichit, in fact, it was actually the best surprise he'd received in a long time, but he had no idea why he'd come all the way out to Japan. Wasn't Phichit supposed to be training? If he wasn't mistaken, the Grand Prix circuit was right around the corner.

Of all the things Yuuri blocked out after moving back home; he could never bring himself to leave Phichit behind. Not with how much they meant to each other. It would've felt like committing a felony to ignore Phichit the way he had the rest of the skaters. That being said, however, most of them hadn't bothered checking in on him either. But Phichit had always kept Yuuri grounded from the moment they had both arrived in Detroit, and Yuuri wouldn't have known what to do without him. He would've hung up his skates for good if Phichit hadn't begged him not to.

Phichit grinned, pulling his phone out of his pocket. In less than a second Yuuri was watching a video of Phichit's hamsters running around their state of the art enclosure. Yuuri could still remember how he was vehemently against calling their home a "cage." He would constantly say that it sounded mean and that he "loved them too much for that kind of language."

Once the video ended, Phichit turned to face Yuuri, still smiling, "I thought you needed to see that in person."

Before he knew what was happening, Yuuri was laughing. "So you flew all the way out here to show me a video of your hamsters? Not even the real thing? A _video_?"

"You know traveling makes them nervous!" Phichit cried, looking at Yuuri like he'd dishonored his family and the entire nation of Thailand. His face fell just a tad, but his grin quickly resurfaced, "Plus, I thought you could use a friend."

"What about competition? You said you were still in this year." No matter what angle he tried to look at it, Yuuri couldn't understand Phichit's sudden visit. He did know that there was more to it than Phichit was letting on. If he had learned anything from living together for five years, Yuuri could tell when Phichit was holding back.

"Come on! Sit, sit! Your mom made a literal feast. God, I'm _starving_ ," Phichit gestured to the array on the table, moving to sit back down and dig in. Yuuri didn't miss the way Phichit blatantly overlooked his question, attempting to use his biggest weakness; food, against him. He let it slide though, ignoring it for the time being, because he really, truly did want to stuff his face.

They talked through three plates of tamagoyaki each. Phichit went over his routines and how training was going, but carefully avoided anything else related to figure skating. Yuuri recounted some of his best stories from Ice Castle as well as little things that had happened around town. He couldn't deny how good it felt to talk to Phichit face-to-face. He'd missed it more than he was actually aware of. A small chunk of the stagnant weight sitting on his heart had lifted and a ray of light had managed to shine its way through. But the same question was nagging in the back of his mind throughout the whole meal; why had he really come?

As they both sat back, too full to cram in any more, Yuuri tried again. "Phichit," he said softly, "why are you really here?" Phichit tilted his head back at that, readying himself to finally explain the full, unabridged reason for his visit.

"Well, I _did_ want you to see that video," he took a deep breath, "but I also wanted to ask you to come with me."

Yuuri had no idea what he was talking about. "Come with you?"

"Yeah, back to Detroit." When Yuuri opened his mouth to protest, Phichit cut him off, "I'm taking off next season to start working on the ice show. I don't know how it's going to go, I'm hoping it'll take Thailand by storm, and if that happens..."

"You'll retire," Yuuri finished, some of the pieces starting to come together. Phichit smiled at Yuuri, a hint of sadness hidden in his eyes.

"I mean, I might still compete after. I don't know if I'm truly ready to retire yet. But if this _is_ my last season then I want you there with me. We started all of this together, and it feels wrong to finish it without you." Yuuri's heart lurched. When he'd quit, he hadn't thought of anyone but himself. He'd just quit. He couldn't believe how selfish he'd been. Phichit, the one person always by his side, had taken a new meaning to leaving, something deeper than Yuuri had ever considered. Needless to say, Yuuri felt like a big, fat jerk.

"I don't know that I can go back, Phichit. The training, the competing," Yuuri waved his hand around, trying to emphasize his point.

"I'm not asking you to get on the ice again. That's not something I could ever ask of you, but I want you _there_ with me, even if it's on the sidelines," his gaze faltered, flicking down to the table, "my family can't come. We've never been able to afford it. You're the only other person, besides them, that I really, _really_ want there with me." In an instant, his grin returned, "Besides, I could use some pointers. That Grand Prix free skate? It was the most amazing thing I'll probably ever see. I know you aren't keeping up, but everyone's literally _still_ talking about it."

Yuuri's skin prickled anxiously at the thought of the world he'd left continuing to talk about him. 

The extent of Phichit's resolve, the true genuine want had pulled Yuuri out of the dark. Somebody wanted him around, and even though he had avoided being wanted at all, it was _Phichit_. It would take some finagling, probably asking his parents for money, abandoning his job with hopes that Yuuko would forgive him, but the moment Phichit had finished talking, Yuuri had known that there was no other answer.

"So when do we fly back to Detroit?"


	4. A Thousand Tidal Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That part of Viktor couldn't be trusted.

Makkachin was comfortably wrapped around Viktor's feet, drooling sleepily onto his socks. Across the table, Yurio shoved the rest of his pizza slice into his mouth and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he went. Viktor continued to happily plunge his crust in garlic sauce as Yurio plucked Potya from her perch on top of the fridge.

"I'm going to shower," Yurio declared, walking towards the hall, but not without hitting Viktor on the back of the head and telling him to take his meds.

"Yeah, yeah," Viktor replied, shooing Yurio off.

Of course, he needed to listen to Yurio, but the little bottle on the counter was laughing at him. Every night he'd take the dose, and every night his head would pound in his skull, making him feel sick to his stomach. He should've put forth an effort to get his prescription changed, but he'd already gone through more drugs than he could count. Weaning off and rising back onto _another_ medication that probably wouldn't work at all seemed like an idiotic proposition. At least the ones he had worked, no matter the shitty side effects. Besides, if Yurio had found out he wasn't taking them? He would put them both on lockdown until he could manage to shove them down Viktor's throat. They'd been through that before, and it was quite possibly one of the worst weekends they'd ever had.

Viktor reached down, sticking his hands through Makkachin's fur and promptly squishing her face up.

"You are a blessing," he told her in endearing Russian. She nuzzled her head into his hands by way of response.

He was about to adhere to Yurio's order when his phone lit up, the notification obscuring his adorable Makka background photo. Inviting any sort of procrastination in with welcoming arms, he took no time in tapping on it.

An article from one of the many figure skating sites opened up. Viktor's eyes blew wide when he saw the headline.

_'Skating Legend Yuuri Katsuki Returning to The Ice?'_

He knew reading any more was a terrible idea, but he couldn't help himself. The report centered around a lone image, posted by some teenager on Instagram, of Katsuki and Chulanont leaving the Detroit airport. Viktor blinked, the initial shock obscuring any other emotion threatening to surface. It had to be fabricated, a lie made up to rattle the nerves of the current skater lineup. And if it wasn't a fake, it wouldn't only shake the nerves of but completely petrify any competitors.

He'd seen the recording from that specific Grand Prix. He'd watched it more times than he would've cared to admit. The live, televised program had been streaming when he abandoned the arena that afternoon, retreating like a coward back to his hotel room. On the bed, twisting his ring frantically around his finger while trying to ignore the numbing feeling rising up his legs, he'd gaped at the performance, brazen and painful. Viktor had never seen Yuuri skate with that much intensity, as if his skates had swallowed him whole and he was nothing more than rage on ice. Every emotion radiating off of him, making themselves apparent through his sharp, violent steps, crashed into Viktor with the force of a thousand tidal waves. No one had ever expected that from Yuuri, but Viktor had understood. He could see the heartbreak laid bare for everyone to witness. It was an essay from Yuuri to Viktor written onto the ice.

When the judges called out the score, Yuuri had broken the world record a second time, Viktor had cried. It was ugly and hiccupping and awful, clutching vengefully at his chest. Then he had composed himself enough to hit rewind.

Viktor couldn't move. He felt as if he were suspended in time, the world around him had slowed to a rapid stop. All he could do was stare at the screen, even after it had timed out and his phone shut off. The thought of seeing Yuuri perform in person killed him, stabbing at his ribcage relentlessly with no sign of letting up. It hurt so much more because it was his own fault. It had been his fault from the very moment he'd pulled out of Yuuri's arms. He'd shoved him away; it was all he knew how to do, but now it was coming back to haunt him. Of course it would. Seeing Yuuri at a competition, across the street, at the gas station, _anywhere_ would mean digging Viktor's grave and dumping him in it, leaving him to rot. At the very least, that's what he felt he deserved.

From somewhere far off he heard Yurio's fully distorted voice as if they were both underwater, making every sound wobbly and unintelligible. He had forgotten to do something. Yurio had told him to do _somethin_ g.

But he couldn't figure out what it was.

* * *

Yurio had left the shower ages ago. Otabek had called, and he'd gotten so caught up in his voice and stories that he'd forgotten to dump out the rest of Potya's food. She wouldn't eat unless the whole can was in her bowl, but then she had the audacity to never finish it and it would smell like shit in the morning if it was left to dry.

"I miss you," Otabek was saying for the third time that night as Yurio made his way to the kitchen. There were very few moments when they could both find time to talk, and there were many less when they could manage to physically see each other. It made for a strangled relationship, neither one could denounce that, but it would never mean the end of their relationship. Not only were they too enamored with each other, but they were too stubborn to let something as trivial as distance commandeer their lives.

"Yeah, well you'll see me at Rostelecom when I floor your sorry ass, Love. You're going to be-" Yurio's reply fell short as he entered the kitchen, eyes locking on Viktor still in his seat. It had been over two hours. Makka's head was on his lap, the way she laid on him when things got bad. Yurio's mouth went dry.

" _Kotenka_? What's going on?" Otabek piped up from the other end of the call, concern flooding his tone.

"Viktor?" Yurio asked, crouching down next to him, focus already shifted onto gauging Viktor's bearings. "I need to call you back, Beka."

"Of course, Yura," he said lovingly and hung up, well aware Yurio had already abandoned his phone.

Yurio took a quick overview; looking for any immediate signs of something that made him feel nauseous just thinking about. It'd been months since the last episode. He'd thought Viktor had reached a good spot, that they could both finally catch a break. He was wrong and it was the exact reason Yurio had forced Viktor to let him move in. Seeing Viktor like that was like not seeing him at all. It didn't align with how Viktor presented himself. It felt like being with someone else entirely. That part of Viktor couldn't be left alone, Yurio had learned that much. That part of Viktor couldn't be trusted.

A relieved sigh pushed through his lips as his scan came up empty, the only indication of risk being Viktor's hands tugging at his hair, silver tufts tangled tightly around his fingers. That wasn't so bad. Yurio could work with that. It could've been worse.

Yurio put a hand on Viktor's shoulder, shaking him gently, "Viktor? Where are you?" When all he got in response was a shaky hum, he tried again. "Come on, Viktor. Where are you?"

"The kitchen," he mumbled, closing his eyes tight and shooting them open again.

"What'd we have for dinner?"

"Pizza," he said unsteadily, as if he had just remembered, "from Eataly."

"What's my cat's name?"

"God, Yuri," Viktor groaned, the daze fading from his eyes and his usual grin returning, "is this an interrogation? What are you, the cops?"

Yurio huffed, the nerves starting to leave as he rose to his feet, "Don't make fun of me or I'll fucking beat your ass, Old Shit." He grabbed the pill bottle and slammed it down in front of Viktor. "Take," he demanded, pushing Viktor's water closer.

"Yes, Mother," Viktor said in fluent sarcasm, a language he'd definitely learned from Yurio.

They sat in silence after Yurio flopped himself down in a chair, the exhaustion smacking him upside the head. Viktor held his phone out to Yurio. No words needed to be exchanged when Yurio read the title, he knew exactly what Viktor meant. The exhaustion went as fast as it had come, replaced by a red hot fury overcasting his vision.

His fists met the table with a jarring thud. "Who the fuck does Katsudon think he is? Piece of shit for brains, dickass little _bitch_! He doesn't deserve to step foot back on a damn rink!"

"Yes, he does," Viktor said curtly, his reply deliberate having anticipated Yurio's reaction, "If anything, he shouldn't have quit in the first place."

"God, they were right! You really are batshit crazy, aren't you?" Yurio's face was flushed red and he was gesticulating wildly, arms flying every which way as if they'd been swept up in the autumn winds. Viktor nodded.

"I have no right to be angry with him," he took a deep breath, "You know that."

Yurio was still steaming, fists clenched tightly, but he couldn't reply. There was nothing left to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makkachin. And Potya. Mean the world to me. Just like I would for Phichit, I would also lay down my life for them.


	5. The Testament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He skated for himself, no one else.

Yuuri glided across the rink, the sound of his lone blades against perfectly softened ice echoed a symphony off of the empty walls. His music blasted from the speakers as he launched into a triple lutz, the landing transitioning smoothly into a circular step sequence. He dropped low, grasping at his skate, and led with the crown of his head through a roll upwards, throwing his hands outward as he went.

It was a skate program he'd worked through piece by piece since leaving the competitive world. From the night he had stayed late at Ice Castle, the craving need to perform something finally eating him alive, the routine had birthed itself, flowing from Yuuri's brain with nothing held back. He had no intention of sharing it, too personal of a piece to divulge for anyone else's judgment. It was simply a testament to himself, physical proof that he could make something without the instruction of another.

He turned effortlessly into his closing move, a camel spin with his left hand pulled back to hold the blade. As the song dove into the final few notes, Yuuri dragged himself around and shot one hand up. With his gaze upward as his tired, labored breaths became the only lasting sound, his shoulders dropped heavily. Chest heaving, his whole body urged to take a moment's rest before going off to get water.

Loud, ecstatic clapping filled the quiet void, followed by chanting whoops. Yuuri jumped, so startled that he almost crashed downwards, his skates slipping underfoot as he tried to save himself.

"That was _amazing_!" Phichit. Yuuri turned sharply, the horror still wracking through his body. There he was, standing in the bleachers with a smile the size of the sun and ten times brighter. "Talk about eros! That was scarily hot, Yuuri, and I mean that in the most objective way possible. You'd give Giacometti a run for his money." Yuuri could feel the heat crawling up his neck, burning on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Phichit wasn't supposed to have come in for another hour, but after his surprise Japan visit and now this, Yuuri was starting to realize that he had become much less schedule-oriented since their days living in Detroit.

Yuuri tried to explain himself, to say something that didn't sound completely stupid, but nothing was coming out. All he could manage were stunned stutters. He could feel his hands tingling as if they had fallen asleep, and the world started to tilt sideways. His jaw clenched shut tightly, unable to be pried open despite his frantic effort to do so. The air had caught in his lungs, trapped and screaming to be let out.

When had Phichit made it across the ice? Yuuri wasn't sure, but he was being lowered to the ground, his knees meeting the ice.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" Phichit was saying frantically, shifting back once Yuuri was safely seated to give him some space. "Hands on the ice," he commanded, knowing Yuuri needed the temperature change to distract himself. Yuuri complied shakily, pressing his clammy palms onto the frozen ground.

After five years together, Phichit understood Yuuri's anxiety probably better than Yuuri himself. He'd picked up on it quite quickly once they had moved in together. Yuuri would leave in the middle of practice, claiming he forgot something, or make up an excuse to skip dinner; always escaping to their room before the panic took control. Phichit would follow, normally to find Yuuri on the floor, head in his hands. Over time Phichit had accustomed himself to the triggers, learning the ins and outs of Yuuri's scattered thought process.

Phichit held up three fingers, one of the easiest ways to calm Yuuri's racing mind; getting him to count. It was simple enough, but something about it had consistently been the most effective coping tactic.

"Three," Yuuri started, eyes trained forward, unwavering. "One... Two... Five..." They went on, Phichit holding up random numbers and Yuuri saying them aloud. Soon enough, Yuuri's breathing had steadied, the warmth returning to his extremities.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Phichit said gingerly, "I just got so excited to see you skating again, and did I mention that was _amazing_? Because it really was. Did you choreograph that by yourself? God, you'd take gold at World's with that for sure."

Yuuri laughed sheepishly, a tired smile on his lips, "You saw the whole thing?"

"Yeah, I came in early to practice my axel and the front desk clerk- What's her name? Clara?- told me you were skating. Honestly, I ran so fast I almost broke an ankle," he held up a leg dramatically. Then his expression changed drastically, seriousness knitting itself into his brows, "Are you sure you don't want to compete? You're still seeded. Any circuit competition would basically pay you to skate for them."

"Phichit-" Yuuri's voice cut in, but in classic Phichit fashion he kept going, not giving Yuuri the time to argue.

"I know, I know. But Celestino has an extra short program!" He looked so hopeful in that moment, "It was for one of the other kids, but they scored too low to get seeded. If we upped some of the jumps and added a little flare, you'd be ready to go by Rostelecom," he stopped for the slightest of moments to inhale a deep breath, "it'd be cutting it close and you'd have to go straight to NHK after, but that's not so bad. Hell, I could charm them into changing my slot at Skate America so we could both do Rostelecom!"

"Phichit..." Yuuri tried again, going slow to make sure he wouldn't get interrupted. Phichit was so overwhelmingly happy, grinning from ear to ear. It reminded Yuuri of their first year in Detroit. He didn't want to ruin it, to drag Phichit down with him, yet he had no idea what else to say. He couldn't go back. The sentence was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. It felt as if he would be sending a curse out into existence, a terrible thing that shouldn't be said. Especially not to Phichit.

"Don't," Phichit said gently, his grin wavering, "just tell me you'll think about it, okay?" Yuuri nodded, the dwindling optimism in Phichit's voice striking hard at his chest.

-

Yuuri had thought about it. All night, sitting alone on Phichit's couch with the TV droning quietly, he had thought about it.

He wasn't sure why he had quit in the first place. It wasn't skating that had hurt him, yet he'd ran from it as if it was the one who'd clawed at him. Packed up and ran home as if _skating_ would have landed the final blow, killing him instantaneously. No, it wasn't skating. It never had been.

So, why had he quit?

He'd sealed himself off from the one constant in his life because he had been hurt by someone else. He had interconnected skating with Viktor, inadvertently pairing them together. Of course, he had. That was what brought them together, that was how Yuuri had fallen in love with him. But it wasn't what tore them apart.

After the Grand Prix, the only logical answer in Yuuri's mind had been to avoid truly skating like it was the black plague. Working at Ice Castle had been different, it had never felt the same as performing. Taking all he had within himself and turning it into something _real_ hadn't been apart of the job description. However, he hadn't prepared himself for how it would feel to be on the ice and _not_ performing.

For the first couple of months, the thought of skating a program had infuriated him, but that had only been his anger towards Viktor dressed up in his mind as something else entirely. The next few months, the thought of skating a program had made him feel like crying, sobbing not because of the ice, but because it would've reminded him of Viktor. Then, all at once, he had missed it; skating, Viktor, _everything_. It had built up for so long, the ache growing and growing until it had boiled over. That was when Yuuri had laced his skates up, not to teach or to be someone else's entertainment, but for himself.

So why had he quit?

* * *

As the sun began to rise, Yuuri texted Celestino.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a surprisingly long time to write and tbh I don't think it's even that good. I tried, tho. :-)
> 
> I did a lot of figure skating research as I wrote this one but if it sounds wonky or doesn't make sense please help a gal out and tell her. I'm a dancer not a skater god bless.  
> P.S. I still love Phichit. My son.


	6. Doors to a Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd bought it for one reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING.  
> Please make sure you're in the right head space before reading this. Thank you and I love you. <3

Viktor paraded into Yurio's room, decked to the nines as if they were about to walk a red carpet.

"You're aware we're going to the _airport_ , right? Not the Met Gala," Yurio asked, giving Viktor his best eye roll while stuffing a pair of jeans into his suitcase.

Rostelecom was in less than 48 hours, and they were supposed to be in furious preparation mode. They had to be at the airport before sunset, yet they had both decided to wait until the last possible minute to pack. All because Viktor had decided that he wanted to binge all of the Star Wars movies the night before. He'd fallen asleep by the end of the third movie, which Yurio had not only been expecting but waiting for so that he could sneak off to call Otabek. Yurio thought that the marathon had been a terrible choice, really, because it had helped to accomplish absolutely _nothing_ , but Viktor had claimed it was "valuable bonding time." As if they weren't already close enough.

"I'm most comfortable when I look like I could buy the airport itself," Viktor replied, grinning cheekily, only to elicit yet another eye roll from Yurio, one that managed to be more dramatic than the first.

Without thinking about it, Yurio picked up the padlock from his desk and threw it on top of his messy, cramped pile of clothes. Going through the motions, he pulled the chain, with the key dangling from it, around his neck, tucking it under his shirt.

Viktor scoffed, his playfulness gone immediately as he said snidely, "You can't really be bringing that damned thing." Yurio didn't respond, pretending Viktor hadn't spoken at all. He continued to shuffle around his room, double-checking that he had everything.

"Yuri, come on. _L_ _eave it_ ," Viktor commanded, keeping his voice as steady as possible, attempting and failing to mask the brimming annoyance.

"Sorry, Old Shit, no can do." Yurio tried to keep it light, well aware that it wasn't easy for Viktor. It never had been and never would be. Of course, he didn't _want_ to bring it. He wished that it hadn't become such a necessary part of his packing regimen. But he didn't care what Viktor would try to say, he was bringing the lock no matter what.

Viktor exhaled a shaky breath, running his hands through his hair, "I don't need you patrolling me, Plisetsky. Forcing me to let you move in was bad enough. Just trust me for Christ's sake." What Yurio said next flew out of his mouth so fast that he hadn't had a chance to reconsider its impact. It was harsh and cruel and not entirely true, but it was the only way it would get through Viktor's unbelievably thick skull.

"I can't."

* * *

Viktor had changed after the Grand Prix Finals, after whatever shit between him and Katsudon hit the fan. Yurio couldn't blame him, it was a rightful mess for a while; reporters and cameras and anyone who felt entitled had swarmed Viktor like moths to a flame trying to figure out what had happened, trying to make a story out of it. All of the changes had been small, though, little things that Yurio assumed were justifiable after what seemed to be a rocky breakup.

Viktor started shadowing under Yakov, training to take over Yurio's coaching full time so Yakov could finally retire. The poor man deserved it. Viktor had become quieter, still observant in the same way he always had been, but only commenting when he needed to. The irritating, but endearing banter Viktor was known for had gone practically extinct. When Yurio attempted to talk to him, awkward as it was, Viktor had brushed him off, saying that he'd get over it. And he did. Eventually, the old Viktor started to peek back through, slithering out of whatever cave post-breakup Viktor had shoved him down into. It was never completely the same, but Yurio had settled, taking what he thought he could get.

Less than a month before Internationaux de France, Yurio's first competition of the season and Viktor's debut as his coach, there was a funeral.

Yurio was out on the ice, running through his short program when Viktor got the call. As Yurio finished out the final sequence, he turned to Viktor, awaiting his critique but found him turned around, talking hurriedly into his phone.

As he hung up, Yurio had carelessly asked, "Did you see _any_ of it, Old Shit?" He was hoping that he wouldn't have to run the program again, but when he saw Viktor's face the wind was knocked from his lungs. Viktor had looked so confused. As if he wasn't sure where he was, like he was lost and couldn't find his way back. Out of nowhere, tears dripped from the corners of his eyes, taking Yurio aback. Viktor had excused himself and walked off, only contacting Yurio again hours later from the airport terminal.

"What the fuck happened? Where are you?" Yurio asked, his tone hasty, furious, and concerned all at once.

"I'm going home for a funeral. I'll be back by the end of the week," Viktor had said with an unsettling lack of emotion, the phone connection making him sound almost robotic. It hit him then that Yurio couldn't remember Viktor talking about his family or where his home even was. St. Petersburg? Penza? Moscow? Had Viktor really never mentioned it? What was Yurio even supposed to say?

All he could muster up was an "Okay," and they hung up.

It all went downhill once Viktor came back.

He had acted normal, and so Yurio hadn't thought anything of it. They went to Internationaux de France without bringing it up, Yurio not knowing how to broach the subject, and Viktor not having anything to say.

After his short program, and a gold medal practically insured, they had gone back to the hotel. Yurio had made a list of all the room service foods he wanted to try, and they ate in silence. Yurio thought it was strange, Viktor should have been talking about his usual competition nonsense, but he was too tired to give it a second thought.

"I'm going to take a bath. Take care of the cart, yeah?" Yurio had said, retreating into the bathroom. Viktor hummed in response.

When Yurio got out, the food cart was gone and so was Viktor. Rubbing a towel lazily through his hair, he felt a cool draft blow into the room, nipping against his water-warmed skin. That was when he noticed the opened balcony door, the curtains rustling softly in the breeze. He pulled on his pajamas before stepping over to shut it.

Shrouded in the haze of night, he could've missed it all together. He would have overlooked the slight silhouette and closed the door, sealing their fate with unknowing finality. However, the silver hair was unmistakable, catching his eye as it glinted under the distant city lights like a beacon leading to Viktor. Yurio couldn't move, legs glued to his spot, eyes blinking rapidly as his mind tried to fathom what he was seeing. Had the water been too hot? Had it messed up his brain?

Viktor was standing on the balcony's railing, toes just over the edge. His loose shirt whipped back and forth in the breeze. He rocked backwards; just on the cusp of propelling himself forward. Time sped up, everything was set back in its place as the world snapped at Yurio, yelling, screeching at him to move. Move, move, he had to move. He was truly seeing it. It was right in front of him. It was real. He was going to jump. Viktor was going to jump. He was swaying forward and Yurio couldn't move. His body felt like lead. He begged himself to go, run, _grab him_ , but his limbs refused to obey.

The wind howled in his ears, rough and fast, drowning out the sounds of the street eight stories below.

Yurio lunged, grasping for any part of Viktor.

His arms had locked around Viktor's hips, and he put every ounce of his strength into yanking him back. Yurio's heart pounded in his ears as he dragged Viktor inside, shoving him down onto the hotel couch. His whole body shook spastically as he slammed the balcony door closed.

His stomach flipped, rising up into his throat, then flipped again for good measure. Yurio was certain he would throw up. And then he did, the thought of what had just happened, how close he had come to missing Viktor and watching him plummet down, taunted him as he doubled over the plastic trash can. It stung at his mouth and tongue as if he'd drunk a bottle of battery acid. Yurio stumbled back to his feet.

"What the fuck?" he gasped, turning violently to Viktor with wide eyes, "What the fuck? _What the fuck_." That was all he his melted mind could scramble together; what the fuck was that? What the fuck? Why? Fuck, _why_? Why, why, why?

Viktor's gaze was locked onto the coffee table, glassy and out of focus. His shoulders were hunched upwards, and he made no move to reply.

"What the _FUCK_?!" Yurio shrieked, his legs trembling underneath him. They gave out and he fell flat on his ass. It took all he had left to get back up, to stagger towards Viktor and smack a hand across his face with a loud _crack_. Then he dropped down on the couch and wrapped himself around Viktor, clinging to him, to the fact that he was there and alive and safe. He wasn't a twisted puddle of blood on the pavement.

Viktor finally shifted, a grin plastered on his lips, yet his eyes didn't sparkle along with it, they were dull, darkened like a burnt-out bulb. They had shone for so long, but no bulb stays alight forever, not even Viktor Nikiforov. "Yuri, I'm fine. Your nails are stabbing me."

At the sight of his smile, Yurio thought he would vomit again. He sputtered incredulously, "Fine? You're _fine_?" His knee bounced up and down nervously, "Oh my God. _Oh my God._ What a huge fucking load of bullshit."

"Yuri," Viktor said serenely, trancelike, his smile still just as big. He splayed his hands out, gesturing to himself, "See? I'm fine! Don't worry about me."

"Don't worry?" Yurio's blood had gone cold, causing him to shiver so erratically that his muscles felt as if they were glitching under his skin. "You were about to fucking jump!" his breath hitched, "Oh my God, you were going to jump." It felt like he'd made it up, as if it was some vile hallucination that he couldn't snap out of.

Silence settled over them, aching and uncomfortable. There was a scream, loud and furious and sobbing, trapped in Yurio's chest, but he had no energy left to force it into existence.

"You can't pull that shit again," Yurio whispered, "Promise me you won't ever fucking do that again." It was an order more than a request, he _needed_ Viktor to promise. And so Viktor did.

Two weeks later Viktor broke that promise. Yurio found him back outside; another hotel, another balcony, but still standing on the ledge.

* * *

Yurio had bought the padlock for one reason; to keep Viktor alive. He would lock the balcony doors of each room they stayed in, keeping the key far from Viktor's grasp. If he could keep Viktor inside, then he couldn't jump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I'm really shitty at writing serious scenes. Like damn they sound so dumb forgive me.


	7. Rostelecom Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri couldn't go inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi, this where shit starts to really happen god bless. I'm a slut for buildup but I'm also like shitty at writing introduction chapters. Either way, Celestino is everyone's angry, but supportive American father and no my mind cannot be changed.

Yuuri was nervous, which happened to be an understatement considering he was _always_ nervous. This, however, was the worst breed of nervousness. It was a drowning wave of anxiety, the current was turbulent and the tide dragged him back each time he tried desperately to resurface. It had been months since Yuuri felt as if his mind was tangled in such a clump of knots that it couldn't begin to be untied.

Phichit slung an arm across his shoulders, something that looked casual enough to the hoard of reporters, but was actually a fighting effort to keep Yuuri standing upright. The flash of cameras and the microphones shoved in his face were all fuzzing together, becoming a vague background image as he turned all of his focus onto moving forward, one foot in front of the other.

They had _just_ landed in Moscow, they hadn't even gotten their luggage from the carousel, and the questions were already flying at him like bullets. Before Viktor no one had cared about him, but now they wanted to know everything. How could they _still_ want to know about his love life? Was the reason behind his comeback _that_ important? Did any of it warrant mobbing a heavily jet-lagged Yuuri? He had just wanted to skate, and by that point, he was starting to doubt that too. Maybe he'd made a mistake thinking that he should have come back. At the very least, he certainly hadn't thought it through.

Celestino shoved them through the crowd grumbling something along the lines of "I'll bite your heads off if you don't take a damn step back."

Phichit laughed heartily, ducking to Yuuri's ear and saying, "This is why Ciao Ciao needed to coach my maybe-last-season. No other skater can say they have _that,_ " he flopped his free hand in Celestino's general direction.

Yuuri had heard them both speak, Celestino and Phichit, but their words only started to process a few minutes later, well after being herded into the rental car. He could finally breathe once the doors had shut, successfully smothering the noise.

"I don't understand," Yuuri mumbled, rubbing his sweaty hands against his legs, "I know you said they were still talking, but wasn't that a bit... much?"

"They're on extra coverage after last year's wreck of a 'Telecom!" Celestino called from the driver's seat, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror then back to the road. Phichit winced.

"What?" Yuuri asked softly, turning hesitantly to Phichit.

"Ciao Ciao-" Phichit started, but in an uncanny turn of events, he was the one that got cut off.

"You didn't hear?" Celestino asked, utterly shocked.

"Hear what?" Yuuri, having steered clear of all media during the previous season, had absolutely no clue what they were talking about.

"Let me take this one, Tino," Phichit said hurriedly, effectively stopping Celestino from getting another word in. He took an unnervingly deep breath, only helping Yuuri's anxiety grow that much more.

"No one really knows what happened, but Plisetsky was... strange? Stranger than usual. And he was skating coachless. Viktor had been taken off the roster," Yuuri stiffened, "Gosh, it was so _weird_. He was in the middle of his program, a step sequence that had him pretty close to the wall. All of a sudden he started slipping out of control. Like he'd forgotten how to skate. It was totally bizarre. He'd worked up so much momentum that he started to fall all over the place." Yuuri looked to Phichit, completely dumbfounded, but he didn't appear to be any less confused. "And that's not the end of it," Phichit trailed off, his skin paling.

Celestino sighed and proceeded to pick up where Phichit had left off, "His head played a nasty game of pinball with the edge of the wall and the ice. Cracked his skull and passed out. Bloody to high hell. I've never seen anything like it. But it must've shaken his eardrums up real bad 'cause when he woke up they realized the poor kid had knocked himself deaf. Can't hear a damn thing now."

Yuuri choked, sending himself into a massive coughing fit, hacking and gasping and trying to comprehend what he'd been told. If it hadn't been Phichit and Celestino telling him directly then he surely would've dismissed it as a disturbing joke. The mere concept of Yuri Plisetsky forgetting how to skate was ridiculous, not with his insurmountable skill. How could he have _fallen_? It didn't make any sense. The image of Yurio a red, gory mess on the ice made his hands go numb.

Yuuri sat back hard in his seat, tugging nervously at his seatbelt. Maybe Rostelecom was cursed. His jaw wired itself shut as that thought set up shop in his mind a little too easily. Maybe this was the world telling him that he should've stayed home.

* * *

Yuuri stood outside of the arena alone, ducked safely behind one of the massive marble columns. Phichit had agreed to give him a minute alone on the single condition that Yuuri wouldn't bail once he was out of sight. Yuuri had agreed almost too quickly.

Yuuri had pulled his hood up and kept his head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. The zipper pinched between his fingers flew rapidly as he unzipped then rezipped his jacket restlessly, his other hand raking down the side of his face. It was sure to leave prominent scratch trails, but he couldn't stop himself, the repetitive motions offered him a semblance of relief.

He couldn't go inside. He knew he'd promised Phichit that he wouldn't leave, but he couldn't go inside. The last time he was at a competition he had lost. Even when everyone had told him that he had won. The deafening applause, the gold medal weighing heavily around his neck, the way Viktor had _yelled_ at him, the way he had yelled _back_. It had made him never want to step foot into a competition again.

He had gotten over it. He was so certain that he had gotten over it, that he'd moved on, but now he realized that he hadn't gotten over it at all. Yuuri had spent so much time trying to prove to himself that he was over it, he'd forgone giving himself any time to accept it. He had been angry and sad and viciously motivated, but he had never been okay. Just okay. Nothing more.

He was ripped from his introspection as his body was launched forward. His fingers abandoned the zipper and flew down from his cheek, hurtling ahead to catch himself or else fall flat on his face. The heels of his palms stung painfully as they scraped against the ground, rough cement peeling back the topmost layers of skin.

"That was for Viktor," a furious Russian accent hissed. A foot slammed onto the center of his spine. "That was for quitting like a damn pussy." Yuuri was kicked once more. "And _that_ was for coming back."

Yuuri waited to see if he would be getting kicked yet again, but the blow didn't come. He hauled himself off of the ground and pivoted, coming face-to-face with who he already knew was Yuri Plisetsky. He hadn't changed much at all. Yuuri was pleasantly surprised to see that Yurio was just as short and enraged as ever. Maybe he was a smidge taller, but Yuuri still had the edge over him. Somehow nothing, not even the accident Phichit and Celestino described, had killed his spirit. And that notion was oddly comforting. Yet, he still stole a glance at Yurio's ears, and sure enough there were little plugs hooked in both of them. Yurio rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri said faintly, his pulse rising higher and higher. Unsure what exactly he had been apologizing for, Yuuri had still felt like it was what needed to be said.

"I don't," Yurio's foot met Yuuri's shin, "give a fuck."

Then Yurio was storming off, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Just as Yuuri was about to sit himself down at the base of the pillar, thinking it was over, Yurio shouted, "Stop standing there like a fucking coward and go the fuck inside! I want to see your face when you lose!" And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd that had formed outside of the arena doors.

Yuuri sucked in a shaky breath, ran his bleeding palms against his training pants, and started to walk.


	8. Rostelecom Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri truly needed no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took forever to write (I wanted to hit all three points of view in one chapter which is was a lot for my teeny tiny attention span) but i think it's quite the trip from start to finish. God bless.

There were very few things that could make Yurio forget his surroundings. The already short list grew shorter when his focus was at its peak during competitions.

He would become hyper aware of everything around him, more so after losing one of his vital senses. Feeling content after giving Katsudumbass what he deserved, Yurio had let little bits of his attention scatter, honing in on multiple different aspects of the arena buzzing lively around him. 

He had flicked his aids off, the sounds of the crowd were too much, too many to filter in, and so he was scanning the crowd with nothing but his eyes. Every brush of a body passing by through his blind spot made him jump, because he couldn't possibly keep track of everything. Being alone in the silence with a room full of people moving around him was still more terrifying than he was comfortable with.

But when he saw Otabek across the entrance hall, his shoulders tense and that signature scowl dark as night, Yurio lost his hold on anything else. The rest of the world turned hazy as his vision tunneled. He pushed hurriedly through the crowd, completely unable to ignore the fact that Beka was _right there_. It had been four months since Beka had been that close, just a room's length away, and Yurio's mind was sputtering like a broken record. He tapped his aids back on; fuck the shrieking room surrounding him, he needed to hear Otabek's voice.

"Beka!" He called, dodging the masses and ignoring reporters yelling out to him. Spurred by the sound of his name, Otabek turned just in time to catch a hurtling Yurio jumping straight for him, thin legs wrapping tightly around his hips. Without hesitation, Otabek's arms were already up and embracing, his fingers digging into Yurio's jacket. Yurio's ecstatic grin gave the sun a run for its money, his cheeks rosy and dimpled and starting to hurt in the best way possible. His thoughts were all over the place and he had no idea where to begin. There was so much he wanted to say, but all he could get out was "I missed you" over and over like a delirious, love-struck son of a bitch.

"Oh, are you sure, _Kotenka_?" Otabek said. His voice was entirely monotone, but there was the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth and a glint of mischief in his eyes. Otabek's own odd version of teasing; one of many things that Yurio had missed. Yurio's eyes were rolling as he leaned in to kiss Otabek. His lips were somehow always soft and never failed to taste like his favorite peppermint candy; another thing Yurio had missed. They didn't sell that candy in Russia.

"I missed you," Yurio couldn't help but say one more time. For good measure, of course.

"I'd figured. Considering you don't seem at all phased by the fact that everyone's staring at you clinging like a damn koala," Otabek replied matter-of-factly. Only after it had been mentioned did Yurio start to feel the numerous pairs of eyes boring like tiny lasers into his back.

Otabek was well aware that Yurio hated any form of public affection. He would say that it made him look like a "mushy, gushy dumbass" instead of the Russian Prince of Vulgarity, and so they had kept themselves mostly out of the public eye. However, when Yurio had spotted Otabek his mind had effectively gone blank, that entire ideal thrown carelessly out of the window.

"Tch," Yurio scoffed, "they're getting a free show, greedy fuckers. We should be charging for this." Otabek laughed, which, for him, was more of a firm exhale.

Viktor's voice flew out in their direction, annoyed but also slightly amused, "God, come on you two. The kiss and cry happens _after_ you skate."

At that Yurio dropped to his feet, tugging Otabek down with him. "I'd say good luck," he muttered, hands laced behind Otabek's neck, "but we both know I'm coming out on top."

Otabek dipped lower, disguising his quietly rasped response as a brushed kiss to Yurio's cheek, "Well, it's a good thing that I love when you're on top, Yura." Then he was pulling back and walking off to the skater's wing, leaving Yurio to choke over his words.

Viktor, thoroughly tired of waiting, snagged Yurio's arm and dragged him through the hall, only stopping at the wall of interviewers conveniently blocking their path. A young woman shoved her way through, a mic held out.

"Following your Welcome to the Madness performance, what exactly _is_ your relationship with fellow skater and competitor Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan?" She asked confidently. He wouldn't have heard it if not for the crowd hushing itself as they watched on expectantly. Yurio rolled his eyes, a bitter snicker tumbling from his lips.

It wasn't her fault that they'd been asking that same question since the two of them had skated together, but by that point Yurio was sick of it. His relationship had absolutely nothing to do with Rostelecom. Hell, he was skating his first competition without his aids and they were more interested in who he was fucking. Besides, it was painfully obvious they were together, how blind could those reporters be?

"Oh, don't get the wrong idea; I actually _hate_ Altin," Yurio said derisively, "I kiss all my rivals as a distraction tactic." Viktor snorted beside him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I see Iglesia over there."

Yurio flipped up his middle finger and grinned sarcastically for the flashing cameras. Viktor, attempting to stifle a laugh, staggered to swat at Yurio before grabbing his shoulders and resolutely steering him off, Yurio cackling the whole way.

* * *

Yuuri, luckily, was able to sneak in relatively unnoticed with every eye in the room locked on Plisetsky and Altin. He stayed on the wall, inching himself around the room until he reached the door to the skaters' wing. He flashed his competition ID card to the security guard and slipped inside.

Phichit must've been out mingling, because Yuuri's dressing room was empty. He hadn't been able to charm the association into letting him switch competitions, but he'd followed loyally to Rostelecom, deeming himself Yuuri's "press coordinator." A fancy title that gave Phichit the power to speak on behalf of Yuuri, who'd never been good at feeding his public image. A microphone would be thrust in his direction and Yuuri's mind would simply forget the concept of speech, amplifying his growing self-consciousness as he stuttered helplessly.

Yuuri pulled his costume off the hanger; a black mesh top, airbrushed with blues and dotted with glitter to resemble the sci-fi theme of Celestino's short program. All conscious decision left him as he got dressed. He was zoning out, unable to recognize his own body maneuvering as if he were stuck in some metaphysical limbo.

No matter how easy running off, abandoning the competition, would have been, Yuuri did _want_ to be there. Plisetsky had been right, he had run from it like a coward, but this was his chance to show the resilience that he wanted so desperately to have. It was somewhere within him, he knew it was, but the fear that no one else believed it had kept him strangled for as long as he could remember. The fear was rooted in so deep that Yuuri doubted it could be plucked out, let alone killed in its entirety. If he messed up, botched the chance given to him, that fear would cement itself. His fear would be _justified_. He had become a skating legend. How could he live up to that label? Yuuri wasn't a legend. He was an anxious, doubt-filled, sorry excuse for a champion athlete.

Phichit had been overzealous when fans had thrown in their support following the announcement of Yuuri's return, avidly showing him all of the heartfelt social media posts. But Yuuri thought he would let them down. They were all rooting for him and he would let them down. His performance at the Grand Prix Finals had been a fluke, something Yuuri couldn't hope to replicate. He'd lost ten times more than he had ever won, because that's what he _did_. It was as if all he could seem to do was lose. When he had won, it wasn't his skill or ability; it was Viktor. Viktor had been made to win, because that's what he _did_. Viktor had created those programs to win, and Yuuri had been so incredibly love-drunk that for a short while he had enveloped Viktor's confident disposition. But he wasn't Viktor. Viktor didn't want him because Yuuri wasn't worth it, because Yuuri was made to lose.

The rational part of him knew that conclusion wasn't right nor fair of him to entertain, but Yuuri was spiraling. The rational part of him had been shrunk to little more than nothing. He was such a sad sob story; it was embarrassing, infuriating, and utterly disgusting. He was the embodiment of self-pity no matter how strongly he wished against it. He wanted to be the person his free skate claimed that he was. Yet he couldn't shake free from the hold that dark part of his mind had on him, an iron grip that Yuuri was too exhausted to fight against.

* * *

Viktor showed their IDs to the guard and shoved Yurio through the door.

"I was enjoying myself out there, you old shit!" Yurio exclaimed as Viktor ushered him down the hall and threw open his dressing room door.

"Wonderful," Viktor said, giving Yurio a cheesy smile and booting him through the threshold, "Now you can enjoy getting dressed. One hour till showtime!" He closed the door pointedly and swiveled around, striding further along the hall to scope the available warm-up space.

The corridor opened into a large room, couches set up in one corner with a TV already turned on, cameras on the empty rink just beyond a set of curtains on the far wall. Seung-gil Lee was the lone skater there, jogging back and forth across the floor. Viktor could tell he was absorbed in determination by the simple way he held himself, perfect posture with shoulders set back. He had seen that same look on a number of skaters, most of whom wound up placing quite high in the rankings. The few programs of his that Viktor had seen were all close to technically flawless but lacked emotion. Still, Viktor remained open-minded and hopeful, very aware of how dramatically a skater could change within one season.

Viktor plopped himself onto one of the couches, studying the rink on the monitor. He was mainly looking for one thing, the small searchlight that would emit Yurio's starting flash. It was an accommodation made solely for him, set to blink green when the music started. The location of that specific light would determine Yurio's starting direction as well as the slight correction he would implement in order to transition smoothly into his first few moves. They had choreographed his beginning section to be facing backward when they both thought he would be skating with his aids. That was before Skate Canada when they had dislodged during a spin combination, breaking as they flew into the wall, and disorienting Yurio to the point where he'd had to stop skating in order to adjust. He had continued on after a few beats, and the judges were kind to overlook it when scoring, but he'd had a total breakdown once he was off the ice.

Viktor had just located the light when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He turned, expecting it to be Yurio, but Yuuri Katsuki stumbled into the room. Viktor's chest hiccuped sharply.

"Where's Phichit?" He was mumbling, obviously trying to find Phichit, but his eyes, clouded and squinting, never left the ground. "Has anyone seen Phichit? I think I need Phichit." Viktor was certain Phichit was still out front, chatting animatedly with the news anchors. He'd seen him some feet away as he was ripping Yurio from his one-man comedy show, but with the way Yuuri looked, uneasy and lost, Viktor didn't want him going out there. The media would tear him apart.

Seung-gil slowed to a stop, one eyebrow rising in confusion, "Haven't seen him."

"Okay," Yuuri said softly, "Okay... Yeah, I need Phichit," and he drifted off, his feet carrying him into the bathroom.

There was no doubt in Viktor's mind that Yuuri was spiraling hard. He'd witnessed it only a handful of times; the complete shutdown of Yuuri Katsuki. Each time had been just as jarring, and this was no different. 

Early on, Phichit had given him the rundown on how Yuuri's mind worked. The shutdown didn't happen often, he'd explained, but it was something to stay cautious about. Getting him to count wouldn't just reboot him like usual and waiting it out could take over an hour. And there Yuuri had been, standing in the middle of the room by himself, shutting down while the competition clock ticked.

Part of Viktor was screaming to stay put as if Yuuri was an imminent threat to his own safety. But Viktor couldn't bring himself to leave Yuuri alone in that state. It had hurt him to see Yuuri look so trapped back then, and that sentiment held true. So he swallowed his apprehension and went after him.

" _Christ_ , Yuuri," Viktor said. Yuuri was pacing the length of the room, clenching and unclenching his hands rapidly. There was a trail of surface-level scratches running along the side of his face, an agitated redness against his otherwise smooth skin. As he flexed his hands, Viktor noticed tiny pinpricks of blood on the heels of his palms.

Viktor was moving right away, slipping into his old instincts. He took a few paper towels from the dispenser and held up a hand, stopping Yuuri in his tracks. Grabbing his wrists, Viktor pried open Yuuri's fists to dab at the scrapes. They looked as if they had been scabbed over, but the hardened layer had been peeled back. Yuuri, caught in the clouds, probably didn't even realize.

For the first time, Yuuri looked at him, the fog in his gaze slowly dissipating. When he realized that Viktor was, in fact, not Phichit, his bottom lip began to tremble.

" _Don't touch me,_ " He snapped, eyes widening in horror as he became increasingly aware of his surroundings. He snatched his hand from Viktor's grasp. Viktor immediately stepped away.

Now Yuuri was angry, utterly pissed, but at least he was distracted. Viktor could take it, Yuuri deserved to be angry at him. All that mattered was Yuuri feeling something other than engulfing anxiety.

"I'm sorry," Viktor said gently, apologizing for so much more than his overstep. "I was just trying to help."

"I don't need your help!" Yuuri cried, catching Viktor off guard when his voice wobbled precariously. He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself rather than Viktor.

"No," Viktor sighed, "you don't." If _that_ was what Yuuri needed to hear then he had no qualms about saying it. He knew what Yuuri had implied, whether he meant to or not. He was the reason Yuuri had quit. Yuuri correlated his success with Viktor's coaching, but that wasn't true at all. Yuuri had always had it within himself. He could take the podium in his sleep, yet he had never believed that. Viktor had; that's all Viktor had done. It wasn't his coaching or his choreography. Yuuri truly needed no one, he could claim gold at the Olympics singlehandedly for Christ's sake, if only he had believed that he could.

"I don't," Yuuri whispered, sounding as if he had finally begun to understand. There was a quiet conviction in the way he had said it, something Viktor hadn't heard before. It should have made Viktor's heart drop, the thought of losing Yuuri, _really_ losing him once and for all should have made him want to break down in sobs. Maybe a small sliver of him did want to. But he smiled instead, real and genuine and good. Yuuri was seeing what he had seen all along.

"That's right. Now you go and show the world," Viktor said firmly, hoping to drive his point home. Yuuri, still a tad lost in himself, nodded hesitantly.

With a heavy heart and a shimmering sense of pride, Viktor walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's happening guys, its actually happening hold my motherfuckin HOOPS. I know the end sounds like a finale but trust me it is  
> n o t ;)  
> P.S. I contemplated ending it here but to be fucking honest i couldnt end on a painful note like hit me with a shovel but i COULD NOT!!  
> P.P.S. writing that wholesome Yurio/Otabek scene was what I needed like it revived my cold shriveled heart. without them and my son Phichit Chulanont this fic would honestly be one long sad piece of shit


End file.
